Where Have All My Heroes Gone
by FlyingHampsterOfDoom
Summary: Slight AU. Darcy Lewis, graphic design student extraordinaire, is caught up in the New York invasion. With no information, no supplies, and only her cell phone. Well screw that. She's got a plan, maybe: survive, stop the death toll where she can, and tweet that picture of the war-whale. And maybe later shut anyone up who says the Avengers are a problem. Possible Darcy/Bruce later.
1. Chapter 1

Darcy was in the library when New York first went to shit. She'd taken to volunteering at the little hole-in-the-wall place; a squat brick building with bold serif font that literally just said 'LIBRARY' out front. It wasn't run off taxes like the larger public ones, and was run mostly on donations and the private funding of the Belgrimm family, who built the library to begin with.

It was the first place Darcy had discovered upon moving to New York: a college freshman, jittery with New City nerves and high on Finally Going Somewhere In Life. New York was _exactly _where she wanted to be- it was perfect for anyone going into the design field, and she thought she'd scope the place out after her exhausting move into the dorms.

She'd, of course, been completely overwhelmed. What was she doing here? This city was going to eat her alive. She was so used to being the one that was most alive, the one who was always described as the life of the party; always noticed everywhere she went. It was a harsh blow to her ego and her self-esteem to realize that here, she was just a part of the crowd. Worse, she was having second-thoughts about her career choice.

It was traumatizing, to see posters slapped onto corner buildings without a care, that were _so much better_ than anything she could ever do. To see window displays in run-down stores that were spot-on in their allure. What the hell had she been thinking, trying to become a designer? To even entertain the notion that she could use art to sell ideas, to change opinions and maybe the world?

Two weeks before classes had even started, Darcy had crawled into the small private library, and hid herself in the mystery section for hours. It had seemed appropriate in a very accidental sort of way- to ponder life's questions in a section that didn't offer answers.

She was just contemplating dropping out of college and wondering how much life models earned, when Merthyl found her.

Merthyl was an eighty year old woman who ruled the library with an iron fist and a handful of peppermint candy. She'd looked at Darcy while grabbing an Agatha Christie book off the shelf, sighed quietly, and dropped said handful of peppermint candy into Darcy's lap.

"If you've got the time, our library could use a pair of young eyes," she'd said before walking away.

So that's how Darcy had begun volunteering at the library three times a week. Merthyl hadn't been lying- everyone who worked there was over sixty, and she was often used to read small print. Or to cut out shapes for the children's displays, or staple papers together. Discarding books, which required holding a Sharpie with a steady hand, or looking through the shelves for misplaced books.

Which is exactly what she was doing, four years later, when New York first went to shit. There's a 'first' there because New York actually fell apart in multiple stages- winding tighter and tighter with each one until it finally exploded.

She was in the children's picture book section, looking for 'Harold's Purple Crayon,' which she was convince was never going to be found- when her cell phone alerted her to a text. Merthyl hated it when Darcy left her phone on, but she was starting to go deaf; and the other ladies, Kathy and Carol, were trying to encourage her to have a bigger social life, so they weren't going to say anything.

'_OhmiGod! Look outside, it's lyk, End of Days shit!' _Robbie, her roommate, was possibly the most annoying texter ever, but Darcy put up with it because she was great at two things- giving up the juicy gossip, and making sure Darcy didn't have a complete mental breakdown during finals.

Abandoning her fruitless search, she made her way towards the large front windows.

"Someone turn on the radio!" She shouted back towards the ladies, still staring out at the large column of blue light coming from Stark Tower. "See if there's any news on whatever's going on." It wasn't really surprising that no one in the library had noticed what was going on; the window was thick and mostly sound-proof, and even though it was large, there was something about the atmosphere of the library that seemed to suck light up after three feet.

Carol searched through the radio stations, looking for the one news station that their terrible reception could pick up, while Darcy checked the internet on her phone. The situation really highlighted the generational gap, how the complete lack of computers in the library was making it practically impossible for them to find any information.

The station came to life, crackling around the edges, at about the same time Darcy's phone loaded the news page.

"_Early reports are speculating that it's some kind of Stark experiment gone wrong, though all efforts on the parts of both the authorities and news stations to reach the tower have failed-" _the radio was reporting the same thing Darcy was reading, and it was frustrating, the lack of knowledge.

It was pretty obvious, though, that a giant light-beam in the sky was bad news. Especially since Stark had always announced his experiments weeks beforehand, when it was anything concerning the general population. Hell, he'd gone on no less than five news stations and two talk shows when he'd started work on building his Tower in the Sky, and several more when he announced that he was going to begin work on having it run on clean energy,

Darcy was putting her money on this not being Stark. And since it was at Stark Tower, and Iron Man wasn't responding, she was also putting her money on the fact that it was _bad news bears_ and they needed to start preparing for the worst.

"Merthyl, I think we need to get everyone into the basement. This doesn't sound right at all," her eyes lifted back to the window, where the column of blue began sparking, and a _giant hole in the sky_ began opening. Yup, this was going to suck. "Grab the radio, we can hook it up down there, try to keep up with whatever's happening."

She was busy texting Robbie, trying to convince her that she needed to get somewhere safer than their dorm room, when the screaming began. And wasn't that scary shit? Because the window, hell the entire building, was practically sound-proof, you couldn't hear a damn thing during rush hour traffic, and yet here they all were in the basement- hearing screaming as if it was happening just across the room.

Darcy bit her lip, clutching at her cell phone so tightly her hand started to hurt. It wasn't until she felt a small tremor shake the building that she knew she had to see what was going on. If not to see if she could help anyone, then to make sure they'd stay safe in the basement.

"I'll be right back, I'm just going to make sure whatever's going on isn't going to bring the building down around us," she whispered. It didn't seem right to talk, here in this small bubble of safety; almost like if she announced their presence the chaos would find them.

Problem was- chaos had already found them. She could smell smoke before she'd even opened the door all the way, and the smell only grew stronger once she let herself into the main library, closing the door behind her. The window had been blown out, and one of the bookshelves had toppled over, the books haphazardly strewn about the floor. Kathy was going to throw a fit about that.

Unfortunately, there were larger problems at hand than having to re-shelves some books. Literally, as in _larger than she was _problems.

The glass crunched under her feet as she worked her way over to the empty window, and she could feel herself beginning to shake at what she was seeing. '_They didn't say anything about this on the radio,' _she thought, staring out at the street of panicking people. She could see a building burning just a block down from where she stood, and heard the explosion of another one going up in flames; the screams getting louder as more people rushed down their street.

Whatever they were running from was headed this way.

Darcy couldn't move, between the heat of the fire and the rush of the people, she was completely frozen in place. She felt so isolated- hidden within the shadows of the library, as if she was just watching everything happen around her, like she wasn't really seeing it, just kind of distantly aware that the world had suddenly gone all kinds of fucked.

And then she looked at the sky, because the people in front of her had just _stopped_, as one, to look. The world went silent, even though she could feel the tremors of explosions deeper in the city, and everything seemed to be bathed in ice.

The hole in the sky had opened further since she'd last seen it, and in a distant corner of her brain she acknowledged how beautiful it was, (the corner of her brain that recognized that it lead out to _space_ and that she was seeing _stars_ and _fire_ and _proof of life_ right there- in the sky above her city. An inky dark spot within the vibrant blue) but most of her was trying not to hyperventilate at the sight of a giant war-whale decked out in armor descending into downtown.

The world sped up, like it was trying to make up for lost time. People were crawling over each other, the street in front of her that had- just moments ago- been virtually clear, was now crowded with cars honking their horns and bicycles rushing in between the gaps and the all-encompassing sound of screaming.

She could hear the metal-on-metal screeching sound of crashes, the distant rumble of concrete and glass falling to the street, and over all that- something that sounded like a blaster from those sci-fi shows she'd watch instead of doing homework.

What the hell was going on? What could she do?

The building in front of her seemed to explode from the inside, the noise at first muffled. She realized, with dawning horror, that something was moving through the building- that it was going to crash through onto her street.

And then a large green man leapt from the top floor, glass spraying out around him, and Darcy didn't think there was anything _anyone_ could do if this was who was destroying their city.

But then he swapped something out of the sky, a small explosion bouncing off the building next to her where it hit- and that's what finally made her aware of the fact that _holy shit, there's ALIENS invading my city! _And that they had taken to her street, creepy-ass guns bouncing off cars and breaking windows.

The green man took her attention again, another tremor rippling through the library as he landed. A roar bounced around the buildings, and she knew that there wasn't a spot in New York that hadn't heard that pure rage. She still didn't know if he was exactly an ally, but screw it, if he was squishing those alien bastards, she'd get behind him.

"Darcy! Darcy, honey, get back in the basement! The radio told everyone to stay indoors, just before switching off to the emergency broadcast!" Bless Carol, always worried about everyone younger than thirty- she insisted that they were all her 'punkins' and as such, she was responsible for them.

"Did they say anything about what's going on?" Darcy asked, stepping back from the window.

"No, just that 911 was flooded and so there wouldn't be any emergency responses for a while, and to stay indoors until the emergency broadcast was off."

That was bullshit. The entire city was being invaded, was falling apart, and she had a feeling that the plan wasn't to just stop at New York- what alien invasion ever stopped at just one city? In fact, what if it was like in Independence Day, and it wasn't just New York? The radio wasn't saying anything, and the news reports on the web had slowed to a stop half an hour ago; and who, in all this chaos, was going to be able to watch TV?

Well, Darcy wasn't a crusader or anything, but people needed to know what was going on. People in the city needed good information, and the world needed to _not _ be in the dark about this. Emergency broadcast her ass, this was a time for news, for pictures and videos and people texting from their bathrooms that they'd just seen a fucking war-whale drop out of the sky.

And 911 being overrun? Yeah, that wasn't surprising, but it also meant that there were people out there hurt, scared, and needing help. And Darcy had taken two years of nursing before switching, so she could do this.

Holy shit, she was going to do this.

"Carol, this is some Independence Day type shit. I'm going to get some supplies together, you stay with the other ladies in the basement. That's no guarantee it'll be safe, though, so make sure you can get out of there at a moment's notice, okay? And get Merthyl's gun from the safe, you're going to need it," Darcy took a large breath in, flipped her cell phone over to picture mode, and stepped out the window. This was going to suck so much ass.


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy wasn't expecting the atmosphere to change so drastically; she'd watched the street fall apart and as such didn't think she'd feel such an acute terror. It seemed, though, that the library had acted as a type of bubble, or like the filter of a camera lens; because as soon as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the crush of the people around her, she felt panic stab into her.

She suddenly had absolutely no clue what to do- what she had planned on doing, and why she ever thought she _could_ do it. She was just Darcy Lewis, twenty-four year old graphic design senior, nursing school flunky, and all-around flake of a daughter. She'd forever feel like a failure for not returning her mother's call if she died in this mess.

The crowd continued to press around her, an indistinctive mob of faces that rushed by with no real destination in mind. She was almost swept up in the fervor of moving bodies, but somehow managed to keep her feet under her. It wasn't until the giant green behemoth roared again that she finally came to her senses.

She snapped a picture of him as quickly as she could, and another of him smashing an alien on a hover-board. This was something she could do. She may have been in a temporary state of shock, but she'd still taken note of how absolutely terrified of him everyone was- how the screams were just as often directed at him as they were at the destruction and death around them. She could start with this.

Darcy's mom had lamented, loudly and frequently and not just to Darcy, about how her daughter was wasting her life on the computer. Darcy had spent her teen years cultivating an online identity that was vastly more popular than she would ever be- she knew people not just across the country, but around the world. She'd spent her formative years poorly editing videos to put on youtube, ranting about things as varied as social injustices to how the newest episode of LOST was _such a let down _onlivejournal. She'd amassed a small army of acquaintance-like friends on facebook, and gotten cozy with celebrities on twitter.

So while Darcy's mom was complaining that she'd never go anywhere in life, Darcy was networking. And it was about the pay off. She snorted as she sent the tweet out, because honestly she never really thought it _would_ pay off- it was just a nice way to ignore the world.

_#NYNeedsHelp this guy's on our side, stick to killing the aliens on the hover-boards. _She quickly added the picture of him swatting an alien out of the sky, hoping that this would be enough to kick-start the information mill. With the knowledge that her twitter was hooked up to both her facebook and tumblr, she began heading towards the nearest convenience store, barely dodging stray elbows and the occasional gun blast.

As she sidled into the mini-mart, she began sending out a mass text. She knew how absurd it was: New York was toppling, people were dying, and this very well could be the beginning of having to call aliens their Lord and Masters. But she had always firmly believed that information was the biggest weapon, that if you separated someone from communication, then there wasn't a chance to organize- to know what worked and what didn't, or to at the very least find those you loved so you could just _get out_ together.

It felt equal parts 'LOL TEXT IT!' and history-in-the-making, texting in the middle of armagedon. But she'd watched, from her computer chair, as the world had exploded during the Egypt uprising- the tweets and video uploads. The news posts on tumblr that were up four hours before her mom ever called to say what she'd just seen on television. None of that- the organization and the world awareness- would have been possible without people being willing to put the information out there. And she'd be damned if she'd let the fucking aliens take over her city without at least letting her people know who was on their side and where they were being hit hardest.

'_Ne 1 no how bridges holding out? or if hospitals r ok?' _Four years in New York, and she'd made friends all over- not just in her degree, but kids from the physics building, a couple restaurant owners, a print shop owner. The list of people she knew went on, the list of people she had on her phone for emergency-texting last-minute _oh-god-I-forgot-about-that-assignment _reasons was even longer.

She stared at her reception bar, surprised that she was able to send anything out in this mess- but really, how many people were going to be sending out texts at this time? Just how many crazy people were there? She could hope there'd be enough for the spread of information, enough so that she would know where the fighting was at its worst.

Stuffing her cell in her pocket, she began taking stock of the supplies available to her in the mini-mart. Did it count as looting if she was doing it to help people? That, she supposed, was a question for the philosophy class she had failed.

There wasn't much in the first-aid section. She hadn't really been expecting much to begin with- this was the type of place you ran to in the middle of the night because you needed milk or your kid was sick and needed tylenol (which Darcy made a mad-dash for like someone was going to steal it before she could). Even still, it was obvious that Darcy wasn't the first person to think about raiding what little first-aid was available. It didn't really matter, she'd house-sat for her bachelor uncle; she knew how to Man Cave the essential supplies.

She lucked out in finding a gym bag, left behind by one of the employees. Emptying it out left an uncomfortable sensation in her stomach. This was part of a person's life, and she was leaving it in a pile behind the counter; she could only imagine that after everything was said and done, the knowledge that _'yeah, my home was destroyed, but hell, my gym bag is still at work,' _would be something to cling to. She didn't entertain the notion that someone wouldn't be returning for the items.

Shaking off her unease, she began pacing up and down the isles, trying to decide what would be most essential; taking stock of things that she could maybe come back for should the need arise.

There was only one bottle of rubbing alcohol, another two had their contents spilled across the floor, so she grabbed it- cradled it like it was worth more than gold. She then went to the alcohol section, and grabbed what she could that met two qualifiers: had a high alcohol content, and wasn't in a glass container. They'd be useless to her if they broke in the chaos.

There were a couple rolls of medical tape, which she thanked God for, and then added to with _all the duct tape_. Seriously, the mini-mart sold like, five styles- silver, zebra print, she pitied the man she was going to use the Hello Kitty on. She also found a bottle of rubber cement that would work nicely for holding bandages to skin in a pinch.

She was only able to find one sewing kit, and resolved to try and stop off somewhere else for at least two more, because that shit would go by fast, if the increasing screams from outside was any indication.

The last stop in her free-grab was to shove as many paper towels in the bag as she could fit- Bachelor Pad 101: if you don't have bandages, stop the flow with paper towels and tape. On her way out she also snagged several bottles of water and a couple chocolate bars, because Professor Lupin had taught her well.

'_green dude totally stopped a fucking alien-whale!'_ _'hospital has no power, trying 2 move patients 2 bsmnt.'_ _'Bridges mostly safe- Iron Man showed up, trying to keep aliens in downtown.'_ _'holy fuck I think that's captain america! sending pic when get to bank- told its safe place by police.'_ _'downtown biggest area, avoid at all costs.'_

Darcy's cell phone was alive with similar texts, and before she let herself head back out into the mayhem, she took a screenshot of all the texts, posting it to her twitter account; then sending out another massive text- '_downtown worst spot. Help is here, get out of NY. Police saying banks/basements safest if can't get out.' _She'd post the pictures of the so-called help (Captain America, apparently, along with a fuzzy picture of a dude shooting an arrow) if it became obvious that people still weren't sure who the enemy was in this whole scenario. It wasn't a good idea to mislabel the good guys as the villain, after all.

She knew, logically, that she should try and make her way to one of the hospitals. They needed help, and while she hadn't been extensively trained, she did have enough basic knowledge to be of use. It was very apparent that hospitals would need her, need any help they could get. But something in her gut twisted when she thought about all the people on the street, trying to leave or get to safety, who couldn't because they were hurt and alone. Ripped at her when she thought about how long it would take to get to the people in the worst of the fight, simply because they were downtown, closest to Stark Tower. How many people were going to die because they bled to death?

And if Darcy went to the hospital, or stayed on the still-dangerous outskirts, she'd never be there to apply pressure, to dig out her sewing kit and ask '_which color?' _

Dragging her hands across her eyes, she sighs.

This was a mistake, because as soon as she closed her eyes, the world at large seemed to realize that she wasn't paying attention.

The window next to her shattered, and at the time Darcy thought two things: _breaking glass sounds an awful lot like fallen icicles, _(which she promptly ignored, because this was so totally not the time to get poetic) and _my God, I'm really lucky that whatever alien was trying to kill me has shit aim._

Later, when she looks back at this moment, she'll think: _yeah, breaking glass so definitely sounds like fallen icicles, _(which really sucks- she wishes she'd never made that connection, because now she'll always related destruction with Christmas and snow) and _no man, that alien was trying to make me run so he… it?…. could play the cat to my mouse. _

Her breath escaped her in a shutter that sounded ever-so-much like a death rattle, and her eyes flickered to the window before darting out to the street. And there, standing atop an overturned red Chevy, is shit-for-aim alien himself. She can't tell if he's smiling, if his species even can smile, or knows the concept, but she understands what it is he's doing: gloating. You probably don't need a douchebag smirk to accomplish that.

Her muscles tensed without her knowledge, and she's ready to run for it, even with the bit of hysteria in the back of her brain telling her she can't outrun his blaster gun. But he's not moving to shoot at her yet, hasn't even stepped off the wrecked car, and she's beginning to think that maybe he's upgraded from wanting to simply kill, and start in on playing _games_ with his prey. The thought makes her violently ill, and she just barely manages to hold back the swell of nausea, and keep her eyes locked on him. It. The thing. Whatever the hell the alien is.

It's as the alien's shoulders start to droop with the knowledge that she's not going to play his game, that Iron Man banks sharply around the corner, and a small squad of aliens on hover-boards crash into the building directly across from them.

Darcy takes her chance, and instead of running down the block- away from this monster- she rushes him, swinging her gym bag out in front her (though what good it will do against a bullet made of _mother-freaking-science-lazer-death_ she has no idea). As it turns out, her primitive brain- the one that runs on 'no I'm not dying tonight' and _not _'gotta have lots of sex'- is really really good at making decisions for her. Because the gym bag wasn't really for protection, which surprises her, and, get this, it's the best part- surprises the alien when she swings it at his feet.

He goes down hard onto the road just to her left, stunned, and she takes the opportunity to grab his weapon.

She's not sure what to do now- what can she do? Should she kill it? She's never taken a life before, not even as a kid when her friends were using magnifying glasses on ants.

But then the alien's starting to move, and she has a momentary bout of panic as she tries to figure out how to work the gun. It goes off several inches from the alien, and Darcy can smell the heat coming off of the road. Screw this, she can't do it. So she does the next best thing, and instead clubs the alien over the head once, twice, until it's not moving but clearly still breathing, and runs towards the end of the road. Making her way as close to downtown as she can get.

The trek into the heart of the city starts out exactly how she expected it to: each street like hers had been, with people trying to find shelter or get out. With pushing and screaming and aliens with their guns. She spots several injured people, but none of them look to be severe. She also sees more bodies than she'll allow herself to remember this time next year, but there's nothing she can do about it now.

It's as she gets closer to Stark Tower that things start to get both worse and better. It's an eerie feeling- walking through a New York street and not seeing anybody. She knows people are there because she can feel eyes on her, but all she can see is dust and rubble; and all she can hear is the distant roar of the green beast and explosions that sound so much larger now that she's just a couple blocks from their source.

She continues to press forward, since it's obvious that there's not much she can do within this hurricane's eye; not if everyone's abandoned it for safer places. She does, however, stop off and manage to grab another sewing kit and a lighter.

Then she rounds the corner, and suddenly the world's gone all technicolor, and she feels like Dorothy must have when she was dropped into Oz.

She can see Iron Man just ahead, flying between the lights of 1st and Main, and there's a man on the Empire State Building, lightning striking out from around him. She has just enough time to get the world's shittiest picture of the world's weirdest thing ever, before an explosion rocks the building next to her, and she's thrown onto her stomach.

She's up in a heartbeat, or at least what she feels passes for one, and is already trying to pry the charred door off its hinges when the first cries for help reach her ears.

"I'm here! Just outside the door! If you're not too badly injured, I could use some help with the door!" She shouts over the screeching of another whale hitting a building.

It takes five minutes of their combined effort to prize the door from its spot, and by then the smoke is so thick around the building that Darcy's eyes are stinging and her lungs are constricting. She can only hope that there's some sort of ventilation inside, because she doesn't think she'll be able to give CPR to everyone.

The first person to stumble out is the man she first talked to, and he's quickly followed by a mother clutching her toddler to her chest. The flow of people is a trickle at first, but then it picks up and it doesn't take more than a minute for twenty people to be out on the street, looking at Darcy like she's supposed to give them direction.

"Do you know if anyone else was inside?" She's already ripping along the bottom of her overly large shirt. If this is going to become a trend, she'll need a bandana to cover her nose and mouth, or she'll die of smoke inhalation.

"No, anyone else inside is already- they're-" it's the mother, her voice thick with tears and smoke, and Darcy doesn't need her to continue so she just nods.

"Is anyone hurt? Bleeding? Dislocated bones or places that feel pinched?" She's checking to see if anyone's gone into shock by asking them these questions, because she can visually see herself that this lot doesn't need any special medical attention. But someone in shock won't be able to take care of themselves, and she'd never be able to live with herself if she just let them go out alone.

When she gets clear-eyed 'no's from everyone in the group, she heaves a relieved sigh, and tells them to head down a couple blocks; tells them that it's practically deserted right now, and to get into the American West bank she'd seen on her way over. It's a thick-walled building made up of slabs of marble, and the basement is lined with steel, so if there's any one place that's the best place to go- well, that would be it.

She watches them leave, sees the top of the child's head over his mother's shoulder, and then she turns back around. There's a cluster of police cars, over the top of which she can see two people holding their own against the incoming aliens- who, thankfully, seem to be too busy to notice her.

Unfortunately, there's a man trapped underneath one of the police cars, and she can't quite figure out how to get to him. It's plain from his face that he's in pain, and she doesn't think the large puddle under his arm is oil from the car.

Damn. Damn damn damn. She's never been good at stealthy, but she can't just leave him there, not when she notices the clothes he's wearing are those of a policeman, and especially not when she notices the dull glint of a wedding band.

She manages to get to his car, since apparently ground-support is too busy trying to kill Her of the Beautiful Hair and Captain America, and the hover-board aliens are kind of busy chasing Stark. Not that she doesn't have to duck out a couple times- hiding under her own car, spinning a full circle to avoid a stray blast, matrix-style dodging falling rubble.

"Hey, I'm Darcy. I need to take a look at your arm while we're under here before we try to go anywhere, ok?" She doesn't give him the chance to respond before she's rolling his sleeve up, gingerly touching around the wound.

"Ow! Hey!" He tries to pull his arm away, but Darcy's got an iron grip, it's something she learned from being put into daycare- if you want to keep it, you hold onto it.

It's too dark under the car, so she gets out her cell phone and switches on the light for the video recording, shining it quickly into both of his eyes to make sure he's not got a concussion. Thought she should take advantage of his attention while she could.

While he's still whining about her tight grip and his inability to see, she cracks open a bottle of water and her rubbing alcohol, along with prepping a needle by first running it through the lighter, then dousing it in the rubbing alcohol.

"So, red, blue, green, or black?" She asks, having no real intention of telling him what she's about to do.

"Wha- uh-? Blue," he's completely dazed, and she thinks most of that has to do with his lack of blood.

She nods absently, threading the blue thread through the needle, then dousing that in rubbing alcohol too (she winces, trying not to imagine how fast she's already gone through her bottle, and resolves to having to scavenge for more). She then begins the arduous task of cleaning the wound with a paper towel and some water.

"So what happened here? Why're you stuck under this car, and with such a nasty cut?" She needs to keep him talking, because she can see his eyelids starting to droop and she doesn't think it's such a good idea for him to pass out right now.

"Wasn't hit by one of them aliens, if that's what you're asking. Was an explosion, 'n while everyone else was herding the civilians, I wound up stuck here, with a piece 'f metal 'n my arm. Couldn't get out because by then the aliens were _everywhere_, so I went under the car." She nods understandingly, and before he can continue with why, exactly, he thought it would be a good idea to take the metal out of his arm, she starts stitching his wound back up.

He tenses briefly, a sound dangerously close to a scream on his lips, before his mouth closes and he clenches his eyes shut.

"When we're done here, go back a couple blocks, there's an American West bank, lots of survivors are holed up in the basement," she says, and gives a final tug to the stitches, which is apparently all the pain he can take, because he screams.

And gets them noticed. Son of a bitch.


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I really tried, very very hard, to explain just why Darcy is doing all this crazy shit in the middle of a war zone. I hope it came across alright, but that's not why I felt the "need" for an author's note: the scene I used to portray her drive to help people is something that actually happened. I obviously cut things out and didn't use names and all that jazz, but I wanted people to know that I wasn't just pulling things out of thing air- this is a social injustice that *I* became aware of, that incensed me, and I felt it was something that would work well in this story.**

**FURTHER: This will be the last "right away" chapter update. I've got one more after this written, but I don't want to publish it until I've finished chapter 5, and I won't publish chapter 5 until I've finished chapter 6; so-on and so-forth. I'm on break until the 7th, so I'm hoping to have this story done by then, but we'll see. Stories have this way of getting out of hand when I try and write them (see: this was originally a one-shot, but the details kept getting in the way).  
**

So being saved by Captain America: not as awesome as it sounds. It's totally bad ass in the beginning, when her and Gerard (she'd learned his name through the very spy-worthy method of reading his police badge) were freaking right out underneath the car. Being surrounded by aliens with no way of escape tended to make salvation seem that much sweeter.

It wasn't until after she'd finished watching Captain Sweet Ass royally crush his foes with _a shield_ that she realized she was still in possession of one of their guns. She hoped no one would notice her severe lapse of common sense, but kind of figured that she wasn't getting out of the situation without having her ass chewed out.

Which was a correct assumption, because as soon as there was enough space for them to make a break for it Captain America herded them into the nearest building and then _yelled at her_. What the hell was up with that? It's not like _she_ was the one going out into danger with nothing but brightly colored spandex and a shield.

Though, to be fair, he was mostly yelling so he could be heard over everything else. And it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he just naturally sounded like a tight-ass all the time. Plus, New York being invaded was kind of a stressful situation. So, instead of notching up her bitchiness level, she pursed her lips, gave Gerard the side-eye, and waited for Captain America to finish telling them that _downtown is no place for civilians right now, get to a safe place until we've handled the situation._

Like they'd be able to handle people like Mr. Pulls-metal-out-of-his-arm while simultaneously blowing up bad guys. Honestly, she should be commended for her bravery or something. But, stressful situation and all that- so she once again pursed her lips in a show of self-restraint that her mother will never believe, and remembered to file Being Saved By Captain America into the _not that awesome_ file.

She makes sure to snap a picture of his ass before she heads back out into the street, because that's an opportunity she can't let pass up. Not to mention Robbie would be willing to do all of her last-minute print jobs for the rest of the quarter to get her hands on this photo. Rooming with a history major was finally going to be worth it.

Gerard isn't in any shape to be moved to the Bank of America several blocks over, partially because of blood loss, but mostly due to the broken ankle that neither of them had noticed until he'd needed to run. She's not really sure how to set a broken bone, but figures that at the very least wrapping it will help.

She finds a small piece of wood in the rubble by the window, and goes about setting up a very shoddy splint. Because he's not once complained throughout the entire debacle, she gives him a choice of duct tape- surprisingly he goes for the Hello Kitty.

"My daughter's nuts for that thing," he explains when she raises her eyebrow at him. "Figured she'd like it when I meet up with the family after all this." His wince afterwards could either be from the pain in his ankle or from the thought of _not_ seeing his family after all this.

Darcy distracts herself from the thought by trying to find a piece of wood large enough for him to use as a crutch.

"Success!" The hunk of wood looked like it had once been part of a handrail, and it was splintered to a dangerous degree where it had broken off. With a huff of irritation, she tore off what pieces she could, and began wrapping the broken end in massive amounts of duct tape- still Hello Kitty, because she found amusement in the idea of Gerard hitting someone upside the head with it.

She could hear more hover-boards hitting the building just across the street, and knew where her next destination would be.

"Okay, this should work well enough for you; try and get into the basement- I don't think Iron Man's really worrying too much about anyone being on the top floors of the buildings," and with that she left, ignoring Gerard's startled yell of protest.

She knew making her way across the street was a bad idea- it was made abundantly clear by the fact that it had been practically impossible to do, even with an escort from Captain America. But she'd grown up in an environment where to _not_ do everything you could to help someone was the worst kind of sin. Her mom had firmly believed that hurting others was the only sin you could ever commit, which meant that if you weren't being helpful when it was needed, you were hurting someone.

So this whole thing- packing up supplies in a smelly gym bag and dashing across New York? That wasn't Darcy being heroic; it was her, having grown up watching her mom fight against The System, and learning early on that the right thing to do was hard, that it hurt, but that you weren't allowed to give up because if _you_ didn't do something, then who would?

She'd learned that lesson, at nine, when one of her mom's tenants had her child taken from her. The woman was young, just nineteen (though to Darcy, that seemed _so old_), and was a single mother living off of welfare, staying at her mom's apartment complex through subsidized housing.

Only, she was being told that while she was in classes, earning a degree, her child had to be in daycare, not babysat by a relative. The woman didn't have a car- so every day she walked along the highway to drop her baby off at daycare, go to school, then come back to pick up her child.

Somewhere in there, the person in charge of her case filed for parental neglect because the woman was allowing her baby to play in a wadding pool and that just 'wasn't safe.' So Darcy's mom got involved, and after seven brutal months of lawsuits, the woman got her child back.

And Darcy learned that just because someone was in charge, didn't make them automatically right, and that if you could do something, you did it. Even if it wouldn't ever have any impact on your life.

That's why Darcy resigned herself to running across the street: not because she was trying to prove herself, or she wanted to try and be a hero, or even because she was hoping to make her mother proud. It was because that's just how Darcy had been taught, and to do anything else was to not only disrespect yourself, but to provide less for humanity; the ultimate sin.

Of course, despite her best intentions and her mad dodgeball skills (honed within the depths of middle school hell) she wasn't able to make it all the way across the street without hurting herself.

Well, more like _getting_ hurt: and by that she really meant _ow, fuck, what the hell was that_. With an extra side of pain, agony, and burning skin, because the aliens couldn't use normal guns, could they? No, they had to use Star Trek laser guns and go all-out with the general horribleness factor.

Her right leg gave out under her, and she threw her hands in front of her to prevent herself from totally biffing on the pavement. This only added to her pains by scraping her hands, rather severely.

"Well. Best life choice award goes to me, clearly," she muttered as she rolled behind an upturned car. Whoever had shot her had either not noticed that she'd even been there to get shot, or had simply assumed she'd died and moved on, because there weren't any further laser-bullets (or whatever they were) headed her direction.

That was one problem down, but the one that currently felt like her biggest was making itself known: her leg throbbed painfully, and she was already having a hard time moving it into a position where she could properly see the wound.

The jeans around the cut were singed and torn, and she spared a brief moment of relief over the fact that the material hadn't melted into her skin. The fact that they were already torn so profusely also made it easier for her to rip them further, tearing at the material all the way around her upper thigh so she could access the wound easier.

When the denim finally pooled itself about her foot, she allowed herself a moment of rest- tearing jeans was hard work, dammit. Breathing hard, she dug through her gym bag, looking for the bottled water. It was about this time that she was noticed. Again.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" It was all she had time to shout before the alien was raising its gun at her, and she was frantically trying to roll out of its range. Some small part of her brain had thought that holding onto the gym bag was a good idea, and on her third roll the hand that was still buried within its depths came into contact with something hard- in a very painful, bruising way.

Hand, meet alien gun that you completely forgot you grabbed, for like the third time this hour.

This time she didn't hesitate, didn't think about the time as a child she ran home crying after seeing Tommy Milken salt a slug. She lurched with all the momentum she'd built up, turning left with a suddenness that surprised the alien and made her feel slightly dizzy. Her hand yanked the gun out of the bag, and she didn't have time to process that it was a clunky thing- long and almost like a staff; didn't get to process her worry over whether she'd be able to fire it, or if her aim would be off.

Didn't have time because it was already firing, and she was watching the alien hit the pavement, the sound in her ears muffled even as she was distantly aware of the green creature (man?) launching himself off the building adjacent from her; preparing her body for the jolt that would happen with his landing. She couldn't feel the heated rush of wind from the fires or the sting of her wound, because she was too busy watching the alien fall, and hit the pavement.

Over, and over, and over. She knew it was dead, could tell by the singe marks that started at its stomach and burned through to its spine. She wanted to throw up.

Instead, she counted to four, waited for New York's giant to land on the pavement a good fifteen feet from her, and then forced herself to her feet. She'd fix her wound once she was in the building.

Only she couldn't get to the building, because Giant of the Valley was making a mess of the entire street- it was bad enough she had to dodge bullets and explosions and rubble. Now she had to dodge freaking cars, too. She made it three feet closer to the door, before a VW Beetle flew just a little too close to her head.

"HEY!" She didn't think she'd actually be heard over anything, in fact she wasn't really certain she _wanted_ to be heard. It was just a knee-jerk response to the fact that _holy shit, this guy really needs to pay attention to his surroundings- he. Almost. Killed. Me. _It's not her proudest moment, yelling at what she's sure is a giant made up of pure rage and the love of destruction. But she's done it, and she's never been one to not own up to her actions, so when he faces her, car still in hand, she looks up at him.

Her leg chooses that moment to give out on her- again, thank you very much- and so she's now at a much better _squishing_ height than previously, but she tries not to let it stop her from waving at the car in his hand with as much conviction as she can muster. It really isn't all that much.

"Can you not throw those at me? Having cars coming at me isn't making getting into that building any easier," she's now flapping her hand between the car in his hand and the building next to her, trying not to piss herself.

His roar is pure loathing, and Darcy feels the blood drain from her face as her hair whips behind her. She's already trying to ineffectively crab-walk to the building when she hears the car hit the ground. Away from her.

She jerks her head back around, staring up at him with wide eyes, and manages to squeak out a 'thank you,' before he huffs at her and is once again climbing buildings and being destructive _for the good of all_. She might have actually peed herself.

By the time she makes it inside the building her leg has started burning so painfully its actually gone cold. Flopping herself onto the stairs in the emergency exit, she once again digs through her (miraculously still there) gym bag for a bottle of water.

The wound looks like a burn, and she doesn't really know how to treat those, so she does what she can by cleaning it first with water, then with the cheap alcohol that had come with a twist-top; she's trying to conserve the rubbing alcohol for when stitches are necessary. Luckily, she doesn't think she'll need them, unluckily she's going to have to try and scrape off the burned flesh around the wound. That's going to be vomit-worthy on so many levels.

She can't help but scream when she starts, and in some perverse way it's a good thing she does, because it attracts attention- the good kind this time. Attention in the form of a ten year old girl who introduces herself as Leena, and her father Mike.

Mike is just as happy to see her as she is to see him- apparently there's a woman up on the tenth floor who needs help, but he has neither the training nor the supplies to do it. So while Leena holds Darcy's hand and Mike cleans and dresses the wound for her, he tells her that there's five other children in the building- with Mike as the only adult that isn't injured. Both of them skirt around how five kids came to be in a building alone.

They make their way painfully up the floors, Leena still holding Darcy's hand and talking about how her and the other two girls made toys out of the office supplies, and were trying to keep baby Thomas from crying by making up plays with them.

"You've got a great kid," Darcy whispers to Mike, as she's led across the floor to where the woman- Helen- is being treated and separated from the children.

"Yeah, well, most of the credit goes to her mom; I was only supposed to have her for the week, she was supposed to be on a plane out of town an hour ago- but, well…" Mike trails off, shuffling awkwardly before pushing a filing cabinet out of the way and revealing Helen.

There's blood on the floor, soaked in so deep and so thick that it's like looking at a pool of black, and it's all coming from a wound that runs down her spine in places that Darcy knows has severed nerves. Mike's tried to stop it the best he can- he's done the whole Bachelor Pad 101 trick, and strapped on a couple towels he probably found in the supply closest. There's not enough pressure to do any real help, though, and she can see in Helen's eyes that she's accepted that she won't last much longer.

"Helen- Helen, I brought help. I told you I wouldn't let… Just, hold on?" Mike's voice is soft and wavers just slightly, and she suddenly sees what's happening here. Helen's _his_, and if she dies, he's not going to make it. His city destroyed, his child in danger- the same wonderful daughter that will _leave him_ when this is all over- and he's in charge of ensuring that nothing happens to five other children within all this madness.

Helen, Darcy has decided, doesn't _get_ to choose to give up. She's going to have to make sure this woman holds on, until she can get some real help; someone who knows spinal injuries and surgeries and will be able to do a blood transfusion. God, where's Jack Shephard when you need him?


	4. Chapter 4

When Darcy was fifteen she brought a dog home- a gangly thing she'd found behind a dumpster, fur thick and scraggly and hiding just how thin he was. Her mom had warned her: _Darcy_, she said, _he won't live through the week_.

And Darcy had hooked her arms around the dog's neck, looked him in the eyes, and said _he won't leave me_.

It was Sciff that she was remembering, as she laid out what little first aid supplies she had. It was the hot Texan summer, and the way his coat had shone after his bath that she was thinking of when she prepared the needle and thread. And as she shakily unwrapped Helen's bandages and whispered soothing nonsense: the sleepless week she'd spent, sitting with her dog under the stars and willing him to eat.

And it was the shallow grave and hand-made cross that she thought of, as she looked at Helen, and said, "you don't get to leave us."

There wasn't anything Darcy could do for the pain, not even a meagre offering of ice; so she whispered an apology, and stitched the gash up as fast as she could. Helen didn't do more than bite into the seat cushion she was laying on- and that was either nerves of steel, or she was already losing feeling. Darcy prayed (quietly and probably not as under her breath as she thought) that it was was Helen being a total bad-ass.

She rambles as she stitches Helen's back up, talking about how Leena's made toys out of the staplers and a puppet stage out of a combination of rulers and office chairs. She can feel herself saying things- about how her mom runs an apartment complex, about how Texas has armadillos and she misses the little buggers; noticing the freckles on Helen's back and telling the woman about how she'll have a scar on her back in the shape of a lightning bolt _you'll make for one kick-ass Harry Potter substitute_.

The watery laugh that Helen gives as a response is painful, and Darcy shuts up if only so she won't have to hear it again.

After the stitches have been tied off Darcy doesn't know what to do. It feels like balmy nights all over again- the moon rising slowly and the grain from the farm across the street clicking quietly. She can almost hear the labored rasps of Sciff in the way that Helen tries to get comfortable. It feels like the inky blackness of space and the fuzzy hue of stars- the gaping calm before the cold of death. She doesn't know what to do.

In between the world falling apart outside and the girls re-inacting The Little Mermaid with paperclips, she hears Helen speak.

"I never wanted to move to New York," it's a whisper of a thing, and Darcy scuttles as close as she can to hear, "I grew up in Montana- the Big Sky Country. I wanted to raise horses," Helen's voice just barely carries over the scuffle the girls are making about who gets to play Ariel, so Darcy lays down next to her, head resting on the same pillow.

"Yeah?" And it's not a ploy to keep Helen talking, even though it should be. Darcy's always loved to hear about people, the choices they've made that have brought them to who they are and why they're here. She suspects that it's a developed habit- part growing up alone on the trailer lot with just her mom, part being taken to the apartment complex when the tenants needed something.

Helen's head nod is small and just a touch painful but it's there and so it's enough to get Darcy smiling.

"I was going to own a ranch, take in a couple retired race horses, maybe have a vegetable garden," the pause after Helen's statement is just long enough to make her worry, but almost as if it's been calculated she starts up again before Darcy can do anything, "I got in with the wrong people though." And here her cough is rasping and long, wet and loud and so very very worrying.

Darcy's too busy crushing up tylenol and mixing it into a water bottle to notice that Helen's coughing up blood. To see Helen wipe it away like she's already done several times.

"Here," Darcy says, making Helen drink the water, watching as she can barely keep it down.

Helen chokes, groans, rolls over; Darcy tries not hover while simultaneously making sure the stitches don't pull.

"My real name's not Helen," she finally gasps out, after five minutes of both women fussing. Darcy doesn't really know what to say to this, what _can _you say to someone who's telling you their life story? That they've gone and created themselves a different person? So she settles for pressing a cold washcloth to Helen's head, and waiting for the rest of the story.

"I was- was eighteen, just out of high school," Darcy can see the muscles in Helen's body start to relax, slowly, like she's holding on less and less the closer the sun gets to setting. "And there was a boy. Remember that, there's always a boy," they lock eyes, both glassy and intense, both trying to tell the other something, "I thought he was going to take me places. You know, just because I wanted a ranch; to settle down and have a family, none of that meant that I didn't want to have the Ferris Bueller Day Off adventure."

Darcy nods, and gently forces Helen to drink more water, before asking, "and so he wasn't everything you wanted?"

There's a coughing laugh of a response, water dribbling down Helen's chin, "gods no!" Even her forceful exclamation is weak, and Darcy doesn't know how she's going to make sure this woman stays with them. "He was a little shit, but he wasn't the problem. The problem was his big ideas, the ones I thought I loved him for, and the people he owed money to because of them." Helen gets quiet after this, and stares at her purse for a long moment. Darcy doesn't want to push, because who wants to re-live painful memories when they're living through hell? But she also doesn't want her to stay still for too long, there's too much oppotunity to slip into unconciousness that way.

"After- just, after, I had to get out of Montana. I had to live the opposite, you know? Clean slate- if I was a different person, in a different spot, then nothing had ever happened to me. So I moved to New York, became Helen instead of Monica, got a degree in accounting. Everything so distant and removed from that cornered little eighteen year old. But that fear, it never leaves you," she began struggling to grab her purse, and Darcy didn't have the chance to help before the purse was being flopped into her lap, Helen looking up at her like she was supposed to be doing something.

"Don't let the fear consume you, too; I almost let it keep me from Mike and Leena. It wasn't until I got this-" and here she paused to dig into the purse, still sat in Darcy's lap, "that I began feeling like I had control over my life again. Take it," Darcy's fingers are curling around the object before she can register what it is, but she knows she'll keep it, if only because it's something Helen feels so strongly about. How can you turn down a woman who's giving you something that represents personal agency?

Later, when they sun's fully set and Helen's breathing has gone from loud and labored to shallow and sickly, Darcy will look at the object that Helen found so important, and discover it to be a taser.


End file.
